


Of Mishaps and Misadventures

by Buckeye01



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Light-Hearted, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-22 17:24:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6088173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buckeye01/pseuds/Buckeye01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The four boys are sent on separate missions in four separate directions with instructions from the king to lure a thief. What could possibly go wrong?<br/>Get ready for crazy mishaps and strange misadventures where everything is not as it seems!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Aramis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Mon Dieu, I’m probably the only Musketeer to get swindled by a husband and wife bandit team!” he huffed. “How will I ever explain this to the captain? I’m going to be on stable duty for the rest of my career,” he moaned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome! Thank you for taking the time to read my new story. I wanted to do something different than what I usually post so this story is rather lighthearted and fun, with humor and crazy adventures for the boys, while light on the detailed history and medical info. Of course, I can never let the boys off scot-free so they will find themselves caught up in mishaps and misadventures with light h/c along the way!
> 
> Each of the four boys are sent on separate (mis)adventures so each chapter focuses on one Musketeer's journey-except for the brief introduction to the story in this first chapter; it will wrap up with all the boys together again at the end.  
> Enjoy the ride!

ARAMIS

The spring air was brisk with copious cloud cover preventing the sun from spreading its warmth over the dusty garrison. The ominous sky was grey with an intermittent hint of sunshine as the wind moved the billowing clouds rolling steadily eastward.

The four Musketeers sat at their favorite picnic table nibbling lightly on lunch as they discussed their earlier morning duties. The sound of sparring and occasional laughter wafted from the courtyard as the metallic din of steel on steel echoed between the walls. The distant sound of gunfire drifted on the steady wind from the marksmanship training over at the range.

Athos rested a hand on his cheek as he sat hunched over a map, intently studying the city of Paris and its outlying villages with great interest. Athos swiftly slapped his hand down on the paper, protecting his topic of research from invisible fingers of the wind threatening to steal away the map as a heavy gust tore through the garrison.

“I’m sure your current interest in Parisian cartography is most fascinating, mon ami, but why don’t you take it indoors where there is no wind to steal the map out from under you?” Aramis quipped lightly.

“It is only about the hundredth time you’ve slapped your hand down on that paper to keep it from blowing away,” d’Artagnan chuckled as he watched his mentor.

“A gross exaggeration, d’Artagnan,” Athos replied dryly as he continued to study the map.

“Gentlemen, I apologize for interrupting your lunch but I have some business to discuss with you,” Captain Tréville stated as he approached the table.

Athos was deeply absorbed in his study of the arched _Le Pont Neuf_ over _La Riviere de Seine_ that he remained oblivious to the captain’s presence.

Captain Tréville paused then cleared his throat, waiting quite impatiently for his second’s attention.

“Oi, think you could pause your studyin’ long enough to give the cap’n a moment, eh?” Porthos nudged Athos with his elbow.

“Porthos, dammit, I’m busy,” Athos growled, clearly annoyed at the disruption. It took a second nudge to his ribs before the lieutenant finally looked up and noticed the captain glaring at him. “Oh, my apologies, Captain… what were you saying?”

“If I may, Athos?” Tréville questioned with eyebrows raised.

Athos acquiesced to his captain with a slight nod of his head.

“We have been assigned a mission from the king—it is rather unusual in nature—but still needs your careful attention,” Tréville stated matter-of-factly. The captain paced slowly in front of the table with his arms behind his back as four pairs of eyes followed his every move. The Musketeers exchanged troubled glances at the captain’s uncharacteristic prolonged silence.

“It was brought to my attention that the king has been losing dispatches and parcels to theft, reportedly by a single assailant,” Tréville broke his silence at last. “He has lost valuable personal belongings in these robberies; the king believes the crimes are being committed by someone within his own court. His Majesty wants this thief found and brought before him for questioning immediately.”

“What does the king want us to do, Captain?” Athos asked.

“The king wants us to find the thief, apprehend him—or her—and bring him back to the palace for questioning… alive. The king wants his personal property returned and, since the thief is the only one who knows where the goods are, His Majesty insists that the bandit is not to be harmed.”

“Apprehend a bandit, Captain?” d’Artagnan questioned. “So the king has us going after thieves now?”

“Rubbish,” Porthos scowled as he shifted on the bench.

“So the Musketeers are going after bandits for the king, Captain?” Aramis clarified. “How _exactly_ do we fit into the king’s plan?”

“You’re going to flush the thief out,” Captain Tréville paused to watch the reaction of the four men. He opened his mouth to continue but was cut off by four voices talking all at once.

The four Musketeers argued against the plan, each raising their voices louder to be heard over their own raucous as they debated.

“Enough!” yelled the captain over the arguing. Pleased that his sudden outburst received stunned silence, the captain continued his instruction with a shake of his head. “The attacks have been entirely random, so you each will be given a package to be delivered to four different locations—meaning you will be traveling alone.”

“Alone?” Aramis repeated. “You can’t be serious, Captain. There is a bandit out there attacking couriers and you want us to become living targets so the king can get his personal belongings returned?” The marksman ran a hand through his wind-blown hair as he let out a displeased huff of breath. “Sir, is this the king’s plan, by any chance? This has to be the most insane idea I’ve heard His Majesty come up with yet—and he’s had some ridiculous ideas—but _this_ takes the cake.”

“Are you quite finished, Aramis?” Athos asked with a slight curl to a corner of his mouth. “Captain, please continue.”

“If I could get a word in, gentlemen,” the captain glared at the four men. “Your job is to lure the thief out so he can be brought back to the palace for questioning. His Majesty demands that,” Tréville sighed, “the thief is not to be harmed in any manner.”

“Wi’out causin’ harm to the thief,” Porthos scoffed. “Does the king even care if the thief causes harm to us? No, I’m sure ‘at wasn’t the king’s concern at all,” he muttered with clenched fists. 

“The king wants us—as we’re riding alone with no backup—to lure a thief out of hiding while demanding that we not cause him—or her—bodily harm. What if our life is threatened and we need to defend ourselves?” Aramis griped as he jammed his hat on his head. “I can just hear the king now, _‘I’m sorry you’re hurt and bleeding to death but, alas, you did bring me my thief without a scratch—well done, Musketeer'!”_

“I’ll second that,” d’Artagnan grumbled.

“How exactly does His Majesty want us to flush them out?” Athos asked, deliberately ignoring the grumbling of his brothers. 

“You are to behave as obvious couriers—see that you are noticed,” Tréville answered.

“In other words,” d’Artagnan said with disgust, “we’re being used as bait.”

“Bait,” Aramis repeated thoughtfully. “Hmm, this mission is beginning to sound more fascinating as we go along. There is an aura of danger I find rather appealing in being used as bait—of course, it depends on whose attention I’m enticing. I hope the thief is an attractive lady of the court…” 

“Aramis, really,” Athos rolled his eyes. “Now is not the time for your romantic notions.” 

“I want each of you to report to my office individually for your orders,” the captain interrupted the bantering. “I will start with you, Aramis,” Tréville motioned with his head to the office.

“Me? Ooh,” the Spaniard glanced between his three friends with a look of delight. “Yes sir,” Aramis rubbed his hands together then followed the captain upstairs.

**Aramis: North**

“Well, I haven’t seen your handsome face around here before,” smiled the pretty blonde barmaid. “Welcome to _La Pomme d’Eve,_ would you like to try our stew and ale?”

“I, um…” Aramis paused as his mind went blank. The Spaniard was caught off guard at the flirty young lady twirling her finger around a strand of blonde hair as she stroked his arm softly. “I... yes, stew and ale is fine, thank you,” the medic smiled.

“So, what brings you to Creil?” the barmaid asked. “We don’t get very many handsome men like you in our town; perhaps you can stay a while?”

“Actually, I’m just passing through,” Aramis said as he took off his grey hat and placed it on the chair beside him. “I must meet with someone in the morning and then be on my way.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear you can’t stay long,” the young lady ran her fingers softly through the Musketeer’s hair. “I’ll bet you’re a courier,” she smiled sweetly. “I mean, why else would you come to Creil? You must be hungry and thirsty… I’ll go get your food and ale. By the way, my name is Brigitte,” she whispered warmly in his ear.

“Well, I think I’m beginning to like this town,” Aramis rubbed his beard absently as he looked around the café. He noticed the tables were half-filled with a dozen or more people, some nursing a drink while others were engaged in private conversation over dinner.

Aramis observed the clientele closely but couldn’t pinpoint any potential roadside bandits who might have followed him; they all seemed like ordinary friendly folk. He was later startled from his observations as Brigitte returned to the table with his food and drink. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to startle you,” she batted her eyes.

“Brigitte, how many guests come in here to eat dinner, typically?” Aramis asked in a whisper. “Is it normally this crowded?” he carefully watched a group of diners being seated at a nearby table.

“Well, it depends,” she replied as she looked around the room. “Sometimes it is very busy in here during the week; we get a lot travelers going south to Paris.”

“Yes, well, thank you.” Aramis smiled at the enticing aroma wafting toward his nose, causing his stomach to growl in response.

“I will let you eat,” Brigitte laughed. “I’ll be back to check on you in a little while.”

After Aramis had finished his dinner and the table was cleared, Brigitte sat beside the Musketeer and the two were soon engaged in happy conversation for some time. Seductively, she covered his hand with hers then leaned to whisper in his ear, “would you like dessert?”

“No, thank you,” he replied. “I really should turn in; I have a busy day tomorrow.”

“Perfect,” Brigitte smiled as she took Aramis by the hand to lead him upstairs. “We just happen to have one room left—allow me to show you the way.”

*****

Aramis felt content as he stared at the ceiling, absently stroking his fingers through the long blonde hair fanning across his chest. The young barmaid smiled as she rested her head over the Spaniard’s heart, listening to his steady heartbeat.

“Your heart is finally slowing down after our,” she paused, “delightful exertion.” Brigitte giggled as she pressed her ear once again to his chest to listen.

“Well, I was unexpectedly very active just moments ago. . .”

Suddenly, a loud banging on the door startled the couple, causing them both to jump. “Brigitte, I know you’re in there, dammit!”

“What the hell?” Aramis sat up quickly.

“Oh God, it’s Jean-Pierre!”

“Who is Jean-Pierre?”

“Jean-Pierre is my husband!” Brigitte jumped out of bed and began dressing. “Get dressed, quickly!”

The Spaniard paled as he jumped from the bed in search of his clothes. “You didn’t tell me you had a husband!” Aramis hissed frantically as he pulled on his braies before clumsily stepping into his pants and nearly falling flat on his face.

“Brigitte, damn you,” the man pounded both fists angrily on the door. “Do you have another man in there? I’m going to kill him, I swear!”

“Mon Dieu, where are my boots?” Aramis threw his shirt on as he searched frantically for his boots. 

“I have them,” Brigitte called from the opposite side of the room, “your things are over here!”

Aramis rushed across the room to finish dressing, quickly tugging on his boots as Brigitte tossed him his doublet and weapons belt.

“Go out the window, hurry!” 

“How far down is it?”

“I don’t know; I’ve never had to jump out the window before.” Brigitte pushed Aramis toward the open window as her husband kicked on the door. “Go please, just jump down now. . . quickly!”

“Brigitte, I’m coming in!” Jean-Pierre kicked the door open, sending splinters flying through the air. “Where is he? I’m going to string him up,” he yelled as she lay casually underneath the sheets.

Aramis clung to the ledge for dear life as he looked below him for a reasonably soft place to land. He guessed that he had approximately twenty feet to fall but couldn’t see the ground or where to land since it was too dark.

Having no other choice, Aramis dropped but instantly felt his ankle twist then crack as he landed on the hard, uneven dirt road. “Ah, dammit!” he fell forward to his knees with a scream. “Mother of God,” Aramis cursed through clenched teeth at the searing pain throbbing from his ankle.

“So much for soft landings,” Aramis muttered as he rigidly rose to his one good foot. Using the wall as support, the marksman hopped around the corner of the building when Jean-Pierre jutted his head out the side window with the hope of catching the wily lover sneaking away.

“Where are you, you bastard?” the man screamed. “I know you’re out here, you snake!”

The Spaniard flattened himself against the stone wall but continued to gingerly hobble away from the enraged spouse. Just as Aramis thought he was in the clear, angry threats from the husband began anew as Jean-Pierre discovered the injured Musketeer limping away below. “Stop, damn you!”

“Bloody hell!” Aramis yelped, momentarily forgetting about the pain in his ankle as he ran for his life away from the building. He continued hobbling down the dark street to around the next corner where he stopped to catch his breath. 

“I will kill you!” the man yelled into the dark after the fleeing Musketeer.

“Not today, thank you,” Aramis muttered to himself. The Musketeer clung to the corner for support then perked when he noticed the livery stable just across the road. “Mon Dieu, when will I ever learn?” he hissed as he leaned against the wall. The Musketeer gasped as his ankle throbbed with agonizing intensity, sending jolts of pain shooting up his leg. 

“Damn, damn. . . damn!” he straightened, sucking in pained breaths through his clenched teeth. He wiped away the sweat beading on his brow with the back of his hand then ran the same hand over his glistening face. “Aramis, what have you gotten yourself into?” The Spaniard could feel the rivulets of sweat streaming down his back, tickling his skin as it dripped underneath his braies.

The medic pushed away from the wall with a grunt of pain then slowly hobbled toward the barn, trying to keep his weight off the ankle as much as possible. By the time Aramis reached his destination he was thoroughly exhausted and soaked through with sweat but he had no time to rest.

“Where in the. . . the hell is my saddle?” he asked aloud as he panted for breath. Aramis wrapped his arm around a wooden beam then pulled himself close, hugging the beam as a means of keeping his body upright.

“Do you need help, Monsieur?” Luc, the young stable boy asked as he approached the Musketeer. The boy held a lantern in his hand; the bright fire cast long shadows across the dark barn.

“Bloody hell!” Aramis visibly jumped at the voice behind him, startled at the unexpected appearance of the boy. 

“My apologies, Monsieur, I did not mean to startle you,” Luc frowned.

“It’s alright, son.” Aramis leaned over at the waist still clinging to the wooden beam for support. “I. . . I need my horse saddled quickly; I’m in a hurry and I must be on my way. My horse, Bella, is there in the corner stall,” he pointed. 

“Oui, Monsieur!” the boy smiled as he collected the saddle and tack then prepared the Musketeer’s horse for travel. Luc gathered the reins and led the horse to where the Musketeer stood waiting by the wooden beam.

“Thank you, my boy.” Aramis stood to full height, smiling gratefully as the boy handed him the reins. “I appreciate you being a Good Samaritan when I needed one,” the medic dropped several coins into the lad’s open hand. 

“Let me help you, Monsieur.” Luc was strong for his age and easily helped push the Musketeer into his saddle until he was safely seated. 

“Thank you,” the Musketeer gritted through clenched teeth. He leaned forward to breathe through the wave of pain emanating once again from his ankle, torturing his body. 

“Are you alright, Monsieur?” the boy asked with concern.

“Yes, son, I’ll be alright,” he let out a long breath. “I just hurt my ankle after… taking a fall.”

“You really shouldn’t be riding anywhere,” the boy shook his head. “You should get your ankle looked at by a physician so he can take care of you, Monsieur.”

“I will when I get home, I promise.” Aramis smiled as he gathered the reins in his hands.

“Are you a Musketeer?” the boy asked. Luc’s eyes lit up as he circled around the horse and noticed the pauldron on the medic’s right shoulder. “Are you going back to Paris?”

“Yes, I am a Musketeer,” Aramis scrubbed a hand over his face. “You must not tell anyone you saw me tonight; but most importantly, you must not tell anyone where I am going. Do you understand?”

“Oui, Monsieur!” the boy nodded emphatically.

“Here, this is for you,” Aramis handed the boy his main gauche. “It’s a gift for looking after me so kindly,” he smiled. “That’s a Musketeer’s dagger… it’s yours now. You be sure to take good care of it, son.”

“Oui, Monsieur, I promise I will!” Luc turned it over and over in his hand with awe. “Merci beaucoup!” 

“Goodbye… and thank you.” Aramis softly kicked his horse to begin his journey south toward Paris.

“Au revoir, Musketeer!” the boy called after Aramis as he disappeared into the darkness.

“I think I’ve seen enough of Creil to last me a lifetime,” Aramis later grumbled. The medic looked over his shoulder at the village he left behind and let out a sigh of relief, but then gasped as he suddenly remembered the package. He tapped his hands frantically over his doublet, checking the pockets, checking every square inch of the outer garment. 

“Oh damn,” he paled as he discovered the package was missing. “The captain is going to flay me alive!” Sheer dread washed over Aramis at the realization that Brigitte must have searched his pockets and stole the package when he wasn’t looking. 

“How in the hell. . .?” Aramis frowned as he racked his brain, trying to think of when Brigitte might have taken it. “You must be kidding,” he remembered the angry husband suddenly appearing at the door. “Was all of that a ploy just to get the package?”

“Mon Dieu, I’m probably the only Musketeer to get swindled by a husband and wife bandit team!” he huffed. “How will I ever explain this to the captain? I’m going to be on stable duty for the rest of my career,” he moaned.

 

**Musketeer Garrison:**

Exhausted, Aramis finally arrived at the garrison and carefully slid down from his horse with the assistance of a few nearby Musketeers. He stiffly grabbed the shoulders of the men as he hopped to the captain who stood waiting with his hands planted firmly on his hips. The marksman buried the dread rising from his belly with a long moan as pain shot from his ankle.

“You don’t look so well, Aramis.” Captain Tréville stepped forward to greet the medic. “Are you alright, what happened?”

“I hurt my ankle in a little… accident,” Aramis answered cryptically. “I think it might be broken.”

“Well then, report to the infirmary immediately and get that ankle tended to,” the captain frowned. “What of the package, did you deliver it safely?” 

“I, um…” Aramis scrubbed a hand over his pale face. “Well, you see…” he stammered.

“What happened to the package, Aramis?”

“Well, sir, you…” he sighed with resignation. “You really don’t want to know.”

“Oh yes, I _do_ want to know,” Tréville countered. “You forget that I have to report to the king—he most definitely wants to know. I expect a full report on my desk after you are finished in the infirmary.”

“God help me,” Aramis moaned. “Just kill me now and get me out of my misery,”

“What was that, Aramis?” Tréville asked, crossing his arms sternly.

“Nothing… nothing, sir,” the medic forced a smile. “I’m going to get this ankle looked at now, thank you.” Aramis gratefully accepted the aid of his fellow Musketeers as they led him to the infirmary. “I’ll be fortunate if stable duty is all I get as punishment.”

“His Majesty and his ridiculous ideas,” Captain Tréville frowned as he watched the medic hobble away to the infirmary.

“I can only imagine the troublesome dilemmas my boys will get caught up in because of this absurd plan,” Tréville sighed as he climbed the stairs to the office. “God help me if the plan fails but yet His Majesty exacts blame on the men.” 

The captain paused at his office door as he stared at the garrison archway, “which one of the boys is next?”

TBC…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _La Pomme d'Eve,_ translates as Eve's Apple, is a real pub in modern-day Paris. In this story I picked actual pubs in Paris with really cool names that would fit perfectly into each of the scenarios in the chapters.
> 
> Cool Fact: _La Pomme d'Eve_ is the only South African pub in the city of Paris.


	2. d'Artagnan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh God, the captain is going to kill me! If I’m lucky, I’ll just get stable duty for the rest of my life,” he groaned. “But I’m betting my punishment is going to be something far worse.”

**d’Artagnan: West**

d’Artagnan enjoyed the ride west toward the village of Dreux, allowing himself to daydream as he passed by the gentle rolling hills forested with tall pine trees. The Musketeer was nearly lulled to sleep at the gentle swaying of his horse and had to fight against the urge to close his tired eyes. Despite the lovely scenery, the Gascon reminded himself to remain vigilant in consideration of the package he carried for the king; he refused to become a target to mysterious bandits lurking behind the any one of a thousand trees. Dark clouds rolled in from the west, being pushed along with a blustery wind and picking up force as he drew closer to Dreux. 

“Great,” d’Artagnan muttered as he pulled up the doublet collar around his neck, shivering against the drizzle that misted his face. He glanced up at the sky now covered with dark grey clouds, “this is a bad omen,” he grimaced.

“I’m starting to get a bad feeling about this mission,” he spoke aloud to himself. The Gascon sat up straight in the saddle as the hair on his arms and neck stood on end. His eyes roamed right and left, constantly panning for hidden dangers awaiting him from deep within the forest.

Cresting a hill, d’Artagnan saw the village of Dreux just ahead and let out a relieved sigh, “thank God.”

The Musketeer rode into the village passing by _L’Église Saint Pierre_ and couldn’t help but stare at the large, stone-block structure. He found the cathedral rather fascinating with its many facets of stone rising into various levels of height. The angled corners rose above tall, arched windows and were reminiscent of many a stately châteaux dotting the French countryside.

The front of the church resembled Notre Dame in Paris with its round stained glass window centered over an arched doorway, itself accented with ornately carved stone. The imposing bell tower rose high above the structure causing d’Artagnan to crane his neck as he looked upward to the top.

He then noticed the sky clearing as the clouds blew east toward Paris, but somehow the strange feeling still prickled at the hairs on the back of his neck. “I can’t shake this odd feeling…” d’Artagnan whispered aloud.

The Musketeer rode further into Dreux, taking notice of the shops and cafés nestled near a tall belfry overlooking the center of town. To the right was the livery stable so he determined this was a good place to stop and let his horse rest while he got a bite to eat.

d’Artagnan sat on the stone ledge of the town square fountain where he found himself admiring the four chubby statues in the middle resembling wingless cherubim. He stared at the plump, naked statues and furrowed his brow as they reminded him of something he couldn’t quite put a finger on.

“Cupid!” d’Artagnan snapped his fingers. “That’s it; they remind me of Cupid… and Constance.” The Musketeer smiled as the sound of the water gurgling in the fountain caused his mind to drift back to a picnic he enjoyed a few weeks ago with his lovely Constance on the bank of the Seine.

The sound of crying broke through the romantic fog in his mind, prompting d’Artagnan to look around in sudden alarm. To his left was a pretty lady in light blue, her long brown hair pulled back in a blue bow, who sat at the fountain with her face buried in her hands as she cried. The Gascon stopped himself short from calling out the name Constance, as she reminded him so much of his beloved sweetheart back home.

“Excuse me, Mademoiselle,” d’Artagnan approached the crying lady, “are you alright?”

“Pardon?” the young lady asked, wiping away the tears wetting her cheeks. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to cause a scene.”

“You didn’t cause a scene, Mademoiselle,” d’Artagnan offered his handkerchief with a smile. “I was sitting nearby and couldn’t help but notice you crying. Is everything alright; is there anything I can do?”

“You’re very kind, Monsieur, but there is nothing you can do to help me, I’m afraid,” the young damsel in distress covered her face in her hands and began crying anew.

“Please, Mademoiselle, tell me what’s wrong,” d’Artagnan persisted. “Perhaps I can help you, or at least, I can try.”

“I’m the new maid at _L'Hôtel La Perle,”_ the young lady pointed to the inn across from the fountain. “Monsieur Batteux and his two sons give me so much work that I can’t keep up… and then they yell at me when I get behind.”

d’Artagnan opened his mouth to speak but was cut off as she continued.

“First they tell me to sweep the floors then do the dishes; and then I have to go upstairs to clean the rooms and make the beds. Secondly, I have to begin preparing for lunch, so I must help Madame Giraud make soup and bread… oh, there’s just too much!” The young lady cried as she dabbed at her watering eyes.

“I’m sorry,” d’Artagnan frowned. “I wish there was something I could do to help you.”

“I _told_ you there was nothing you could do!” The lady threw her arms around d’Artagnan as she broke into sobs, catching the Musketeer completely off guard. The Gascon sat frozen in shock for a moment before he hesitantly put his arm around her shoulder to comfort her.

“Maybe, um… maybe you could ask them to hire another helper… um, to ease your share of the workload, hmm?” d’Artagnan patted her arm softly as he forced a smile. “Or… or you could always… quit and get another job?”

At the suggestion of quitting, the young lady only cried harder. d’Artagnan’s eyes grew wide with surprise and his cheeks burned with embarrassment as she leaned even closer to his chest. He frantically looked around the village square for an excuse to escape the dispirited young lady but found his predicament had elicited disapproving stares from villagers as they passed by. He rolled his eyes as he now thoroughly regretted his romantic stop at the fountain to admire the cherubim. 

“I don’t want to go back in there,” the lady grabbed a tighter hold of d’Artagnan’s doublet. “Please don’t make me go back in there!”

“Make you go…” d’Artagnan’s eyes grew wide as saucers. “Mademoiselle, I’m really very busy and should get back on the road again,” he squirmed, desperately trying to break free of her iron grip. “Mademoiselle, please…”

“Valérie…”

“Valérie, I really must go,” d’Artagnan peeled her arms away from his waist then tried to pull free to leave. “Valérie…”

“Hey, what do you think you’re doing?” an angry voice yelled suddenly from behind “Get your filthy hands off my chambermaid!”

“No… no, you have it all wrong!” d’Artagnan protested vehemently, still trying to wiggle free from the girl’s grip. “I was just trying to help her,” he explained. “She said you were too hard on her; that she’s running herself ragged keeping up with her heavy workload.”

“We’re too _hard_ on her?” the man scoffed. “Looks like you’re bein’ a little too soft on her,” he laughed.

“No, you have it all wrong!” d’Artagnan challenged the man defiantly. “Listen to me…”

Suddenly, d’Artagnan’s words were cut off as the older man pulled the Gascon to his feet then punched him on the jaw, knocking him loose from Valérie’s grip. Monsieur Batteaux and one of his sons grabbed the girl then dragged her from the fountain, kicking and screaming, back toward _La Perle._

“Let her go!” d’Artagnan jumped to his feet and ran after the men, stopping the older man with a firm grip to his arm. 

Monsieur Batteaux turned to argue with the angry Musketeer but laughed as he watched a trickle of blood dripping from the injured Gascon’s lip. “What are you going to do, _boy?”_

“Watch out!” Valérie screamed as the second son grabbed d’Artagnan then roughly twisted his arm at an unnatural angle behind his back. The Gascon tried to break loose, but the more he struggled the more the man twisted on his arm until he heard a sickening _pop!_

d’Artagnan screamed and dropped to his knees as his shoulder popped out of socket. Valérie twisted free of her assailant’s hold and rushed to the Musketeer’s aid. “Oh God, you’ve dislocated his shoulder!” she yelled at the man. “You weren’t supposed to hurt anyone; this wasn’t part of the plan!” 

“Wait a damn minute,” d’Artagnan hissed through clenched teeth. “You mean this was all just an act?”

“Enough talk!” the old man yelled. The two boys yanked d’Artagnan to his feet, causing him to cry out in pain as they dragged him toward the inn. Despite the pain radiating from his shoulder, the Gascon struggled profusely; he refused to be dragged anywhere with these strange men without a fight. 

“Let him go, Philippe!” Valérie screamed as d’Artagnan finally broke free from the men’s grip. The Musketeer reached for his main gauche with his good arm then pivoted to face his assailants.

Before he could act, d’Artagnan was knocked to his knees as the butt of a pistol slammed into the back of his head. He distantly heard Valérie scream as he then fell forward to the dirt, his world fading to black.

*****

d’Artagnan awakened with his head pounding and his shoulder throbbing in pain. He peeled his eyes open but instantly regretted it as the room began spinning in circles. His stomach rolled violently just before he felt the telltale rise of bile in his throat, “ssicck…”

“Turn him on his side,” a voice ordered as d’Artagnan felt arms pulling him to the edge of the bed where a proffered bowl waited. His stomach released its contents in agonizing waves, leaving the Musketeer coughing and gasping for breath. Pain drummed in d’Artagnan’s head as his vomiting turned to dry heaves with nothing coming up other than bile—though the Gascon felt his innards were being pulled out by a vicious sadist.

d’Artagnan went limp in the arms that supported him as the dry heaves abated; he closed his eyes, feeling himself being gently lowered back to the pillow. He moaned as a cold, wet cloth was draped across his brow and then followed up with a cloth wiping his face dry of the tears that had sprung during his retching fit. A soothing voice whispered softly until the Gascon visibly relaxed at the tender ministrations. 

“I need to get back to Paris,” d’Artagnan croaked as he attempted to sit up.

“No you don’t, young man!” warned a stern voice. “You are in no condition to go anywhere,” the grey-haired doctor said. “You received quite a blow to the back of your head—which required several stitches to patch you up—and you’re undoubtedly concussed. You also have suffered a dislocated shoulder.”

“I was on an important mission for the king…”

“Son, it’s going to be dark soon,” the doctor said as he sat on the edge of the bed. “Why don’t you get some rest and we’ll see how you are feeling in the morning. If you are coherent and still _insisting_ on leaving for Paris then I will consider letting you go in the morning… but not until then. I’m sorry Musketeer, but I cannot in good conscience let you leave in your condition.”

“How…?”

“I saw your pauldron, son,” the older doctor smiled. “I’ve patched a few Musketeers up in my day.”

“Where… oh God, where is my doublet?” d’Artagnan panicked, trying to sit up. The doctor and nurse firmly held the stubborn Gascon down, despite all his struggling and fighting. The team released their hold only once the young Musketeer realized he lacked the strength to fight any longer and finally relented.

“Your doublet is over there,” the doctor pointed to the tan jacket draped over the back of a chair. “We had to remove it so that I could fix your shoulder. Don’t worry, no harm was done to it,” he chuckled. “I know the regard you Musketeers have for your uniform.”

“No, it’s not that,” d’Artagnan grimaced. “I had a parcel hidden in the inside pocket,” he bit his lip. “Could you check to see if it’s still there?”

The nurse walked to the chair and rummaged through the jacket, checking every pocket, then pressed it flat to feel for any odd shapes within the leather. “I don’t feel anything in here, Monsieur.”

“Bring it here, please,” d’Artagnan asked as the doctor helped him sit upright. The Gascon grabbed the jacket and feverishly searched the pocket in which he had hidden the parcel… but felt nothing. “Oh God, it’s gone!”

“Son, we didn’t go through your doublet,” the doctor shook his head emphatically.

“Those people who hit me, they had to be the ones who took it!” d’Artagnan suddenly paled as his jaw dropped. “I was trying to console Valérie when those men came over and began harassing her.”

“Who’s Valérie?”

“Valérie… she’s the new maid at _La Perle,”_ d’Artagnan explained. “She told me she just started working there and Monsieur Batteux and his two sons were constantly making her life miserable.”

“Wait a minute,” the doctor held up his hand, interrupting the Musketeer. “Monsieur Batteux died about a year ago and there is no Valérie who works at _La Perle_ —I know everyone who is employed there.”

“Mon Dieu,” d’Artagnan gasped, falling against the pillows with a sigh. He closed his eyes and shook his head in disbelief. “The mystery bandits, dammit!” he spat angrily. “Oh God, the captain is going to kill me! If I’m lucky, I’ll just get stable duty for the rest of my life,” he groaned. “But I’m betting my punishment is going to be something far worse.”

“Why don’t you get some rest and worry about this in the morning when you’re feeling better, alright?” The doctor chuckled lightly as he helped the young Musketeer get comfortable in the bed.

“What will Athos think of me?”

“I’m sure your friend, Athos, will think nothing less of you, son,” the doctor reassured with a pat to his shoulder. “Your friends will be relieved that you weren’t hurt more severely, my young Musketeer. No package is worth your life—not even from the king.”

**Musketeer Garrison, Next Day:**

At last, d’Artagnan rode through the arched entrance of the garrison tired, sore and barely able to keep himself upright in the saddle. Upon noticing the arm in a sling and the swaying motion of the Gascon, two Musketeers were instantly at d’Artagnan’s side to catch him as he slipped from the saddle into their arms.

Captain Tréville rushed to kneel beside the Musketeers, pushing the two rescuers out of the way. “d’Artagnan, are you alright?”

“Yes, Captain,” d’Artagnan sighed, “I’m fine, sir.”

“You don’t look fine,” the captain retorted. “What happened, how badly are you hurt?”

“I was attacked in Dreux; they hit me over the head and dislocated my shoulder. I’ll be fine but,” d’Artagnan steeled himself, “they took the package.”

“It’s alright,” Captain Tréville let out a disappointed sigh as he patted the Gascon’s arm. “We’ll talk about this later; right now, I want the physician to examine you.”

The two Musketeers helped d’Artagnan to his feet then slowly walked him to the infirmary where the regiment doctor was waiting. 

“How am I going to explain what happened to the captain?” d’Artagnan asked aloud to his fellow Musketeers.

“By being honest, d’Artagnan,” Moreau answered with a soft squeeze to his good shoulder. “This wasn’t your fault; the captain knows that.”

*****

“This is your official report?” Captain Tréville asked as his eyes scanned over the written explanation of the events in Dreux.

“Yes sir,” d’Artagnan nodded. “That is exactly how it happened—every last detail—embarrassing as it is,” he grumbled.

Tréville only nodded as he continued reading quietly. d’Artagnan watched nervously as he saw the captain raise his eyebrows then peer over the paper at the young Gascon. The captain merely shook his head then continued reading, occasionally raising another eyebrow at the written account.

d’Artagnan grew more anxious the longer the captain took to read his report. The Gascon sat fretfully wringing his hands then watched with astonishment as he heard the captain snicker. Tréville did his best to suppress the smile pulling at his mouth but he could not reveal his amusement in the presence of the Gascon.

“Sir, will the king be reading this report?” d’Artagnan asked, swallowing hard.

“Yes, d’Artagnan,” the captain replied. “The king has requested to be briefed on the outcome of these missions and has asked for reports of each.” Captain Tréville allowed the ghost of a smile to cross his lips as he added, “the king will be most interested in reading your report.”

“Mon Dieu,” d’Artagnan groaned. The Gascon sat for a moment before reluctantly standing to leave but then smiled brightly as a thought came to mind.

“What is it, d’Artagnan?”

“I am unable to do stable duty… at least until my shoulder heals,” he grinned happily.

“Ah yes,” the captain nodded, raising his eyebrows thoughtfully. “The consequences for losing your assigned package will be determined at a later time; I am still waiting on two of your brothers to return from their missions.”

“I understand, sir,” d’Artagnan forced a smile then made a hasty departure from the captain’s office. He leaned back against the door just as Aramis passed by.

“That bad, huh?” the medic chuckled.

“You wouldn’t believe it,” the Gascon let out a huff of disgust.

“Try me,” Aramis countered. “Besides, you haven’t heard my story yet.”

“Did you lose your package too?” d’Artagnan asked Aramis, noticing the crutches and wrapped ankle. “What happened to you, are you alright?”

Aramis sighed deeply as he rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Let’s go to my room where we can talk privately.” The medic leaned heavily on his crutch as he hobbled to his room, “I have a bottle of wine…”

“That bad, huh?”

“You have no idea, my young friend!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Normally I am a stickler for historical authenticity in my stories but in this chapter, in particular, I decided to bend the rules and allow for a bit of author discretion. The village of Dreux has a lovely fountain in the village square with four bronze cherubim statues that, obviously, was not there in d’Artagnan’s day… but it is such a beautiful fountain I just had to include it!
> 
> Also, _L'Hôtel La Perle_ is ideally located in the heart of the renowned district of Saint-Germain-des-Pres in the 6th arrondissement of Paris, NOT Dreux. The hotel is close to major tourist places of the left bank such as Notre-Dame de Paris Cathedral, Luxembourg garden and the Louvre Museum. La Perle is a charming 3 star hotel in the historical setting of a 17th century building. 
> 
> _L’Église Saint Pierre_ is a Gothic-style church built in the early thirteenth century in Dreux. It was largely destroyed during a siege by the English in 1421 but was rebuilt in the fifteenth/sixteenth centuries. Inside, the church has preserved stained glass of the fifteenth/sixteenth centuries and a double organ dating back to 1614.


	3. Porthos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Never said I was smart,” Porthos replied. “Growin’ up, I learned to get by on the streets by playin’ cards—I’ve learned a trick or two in my day.” The large Musketeer glared at the man, “you ‘ave a problem with ‘at?” he challenged.

**Porthos: South**

Porthos rode into the village of Étampes and down the dusty street toward the center church, _Église Notre Dame du Fort._ He glanced over the Gothic-style church with its massive belltower rising high above the village and paused. He shielded his eyes against the glaring sun as he gazed at the steeple of the belfry rising tall and to a sharpened point, as though pointing toward Heaven.

The large Musketeer shrugged and continued riding–one church looked the same as the next—and he wasn’t one who cared about the style of architecture or the fancy stone carvings meant to impress the parishioners who entered its sacred walls to worship.

Porthos finally arrived at _L'Hôtel de Ville,_ where he would stay the night before returning to Paris once he made his delivery in the morning. Next door was a tavern, instantly catching his eye and enticing the Musketeer to indulge his thirst. _“L’Alibi,”_ Porthos huffed, “‘at’s worth checkin’ out. I could use a drink.”

He sat at a corner table with his back to the wall then ordered ale with a bowl of stew from the barmaid. Before his food even arrived the Musketeer’s interest was drawn to the noisy crowd gathered around a table where a game of lenturlu was well underway.

A rather heated debate began over the latest round with players and spectators alike, all yelling at the outcome of the game and who had rightly won. “Ace of spades always trumps the deck,” one man yelled to cheers and jeers alike.

“Mm, not in lenturlu,” Porthos corrected as he approached the dealer at the card table. “The Jack o’ Clubs is Pam.”

“What?”

“Pamphilus… Pam,” Porthos explained to the confused crowd. “Pam means _most beloved;_ in lenturlu it beats all other cards, including Ace of Spades.”

“How do you know so much about this game?” the dealer asked.

“I’ve been playin’ card games for years,” Porthos bristled. “My reasons are my own.”

“Alright, fair enough,” the dealer nodded. “Why don’t you pull up a chair and join us, maybe we’ll learn a thing or two. I’ll sweeten the deal and buy you an ale,” the dealer added.

“Alright, let’s play,” Porthos said as he clapped his hands together eagerly. The large Musketeer pulled up a chair, nodded his greeting to everyone at the table, then sat on the dealer’s left. He watched as the dealer dealt out the cards around the table, carefully observing the eyes of the men as they picked up their cards.

*****

“I love this game!” Porthos took another swig of ale then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He laughed heartily at the mountain of chips growing in front of him, evoking grumbles from around the table.

“I forfeit,” said one player.

“You’re looed, my boy,” said the dealer, “that’s five more chips in the pot.”

“Forfeit,” the rest of the players said around the table until Porthos, who then fanned his cards out on the table. “Flush, I win!” he clapped his hands together with a triumphant laugh.

“You’re a filthy cheater!” one player accused with a venomous tone.

“That’s the second round you’ve won, Monsieur,” the dealer glared suspiciously at the Musketeer. 

“I told ya I was good a’ the game,” Porthos growled. “I didn’t come in ‘ere with a Jack o’ Clubs up my sleeve, if ‘at’s what you’re accusin’,” he snarled sharply.

“Fair enough, let’s test your card-playing skills further,” the dealer challenged. “How about a game of Jeu Royal de la Guerre? I have my own pack of cards for the game—it’s my way of ensuring no one cheats.”

“Fine,” Porthos accepted the challenge. “I’ll start wit’ two livre,” he nodded to the dealer, throwing down his coins.

“Messieurs, you must place your bets before I can deal,” the dealer waited with the deck of cards in hand. Players made their bets and the game was off to an exciting start—much to the delight of the growing crowd.

The pot in the trick-taking game grew sweeter as more bets were placed, causing tensions to run high at the table. An enthusiastic spectator ordered another round of ales to quench the tempers of the thirsty players—as well as having the underlying philosophy that the more the players drank, the longer they would play.

“You are now a Prisoner of War,” the dealer said to one scruffy-looking man across from Porthos. 

“Ah, the Death card,” he said to another man, “you are out of the game.”

“‘At’s the way it’s done!” Porthos slapped his cards down, “my general just won the trick—I win the pot.”

“How did you get to be so damn smart?” the scruffy-looking player muttered.

“Never said I was smart,” Porthos replied. “Growin’ up, I learned to get by on the streets by playin’ cards—I’ve learned a trick or two in my day.” The large Musketeer glared at the man, “you ‘ave a problem with ‘at?” he challenged.

“Save it boys,” the dealer warned. “Let’s play another round; place your bets, Messieurs.”

“Five livre,” Porthos said as he threw the coins into the middle of the table.

The game of tricks and high stakes went slowly on and, while some players were quite competent, none could match the street-smart prowess and skill of Porthos. Alas, the large Musketeer cheered as he won another round. “Army General wins,” Porthos declared with subdued mirth.

“This man is cheating!” an angry player growled as he threw his cards on the table.

“I’m done!” Porthos finished his ale in one swallow then slammed his mug down on the table. “I’ve ‘ad enough of bein’ called a cheater,” Porthos pocketed the coins from the middle. “I don’t cheat,” he stood to leave, “and I don’t lie neither.”

“Damn you, _cheater,_ we want our money back!” The scruffy-looking player stood up then angrily swiped his arm across the table, sending chips, cards and mugs flying. “Empty your pockets, you filthy liar… you cheating wretch!”

“Come and try to empty my pockets,” Porthos challenged. The large Musketeer stood his ground, steadying himself on both feet as he faced the angry players, _daring_ them to make their move. “I’m waitin’ gents…”

One player took a swing at Porthos, just as the scruffy man grabbed a knife and lashed out with unbridled rage. The man sliced the knife across the Musketeer’s wrist, though the cut was not terribly deep, it still drew a fair amount of blood. Small drops of crimson smeared across Porthos’s hand as he drew his main gauche and effortlessly fended off a second strike, blocking the knife as the scruffy man lunged again. 

The large Musketeer whirled around as a third man attempted to grab the pistol from his weapons belt; Porthos punched the man and sent him flying across the table then subsequently falling to the floor in a mix of cards and ale. “Stay down, damn you!”

“Bloody hell,” Porthos cursed as he took the brief respite to catch his breath. His eyes darted left and right, carefully watching the angry group to see who would strike next.

Quick as lightning, the scruffy man made another charge with the knife, plunging it into the middle of the large man’s chest before the Musketeer could even react. The knife was slowed by the thick leather of Porthos’s doublet and the many rows of silver hardware beading the upper portion of the jacket, diminishing the damage the weapon may have caused. The blade was finally stopped as it hit bone.

“Big mistake,” the large Musketeer snarled. “You don’t know who you’re messin’ wit’,” he easily pulled the knife from his chest with a growl. Porthos lunged forward to grab the scruffy man around the throat just as he was pounded over the head with a bottle from behind. The Musketeer fell to the floor in an unconscious heap as a small puddle of blood pooled around his head and chest.

*****

“Oi,” Porthos groaned in pain. He groggily lifted his head then attempted to twist his body to lie down as he felt the room spin; he furrowed his brow, thoroughly confused at his inability to move. The Musketeer tugged at his arms but cursed angrily as they appeared stuck behind his back.

“What the hell hap’ned?” Porthos’s mind was a myriad of spiderwebs—his confused thoughts were all discombobulated and jumbled. The Musketeer peeled open his brown eyes then blinked against the bright sunlight streaming in through the window. He shook his head with disappointment as he recognized nothing.

“Where the hell am I?” he grumbled as he looked blearily around the room. Porthos tried once again to move his arms but discovered that his wrists were bound together and tied behind the wooden beam he leaned against. 

“Aw, bloody hell!” Porthos growled as he looked at his feet and found his ankles were also bound together with rope. Resigned, he slumped against the wood beam and closed his eyes as he tried to clear his head.

Porthos assumed it would be a futile attempt but checked the tightness of the rope binding his hands, only to yelp in pain as the rope chafed against his cut wrist. “Ow, dammit!” he cursed. The Musketeer’s breath hissed sharply through clenched teeth as he blindly rearranged the rope so it no longer dug into his cut wrist.

“Wish you were here, ‘Mis,” he blew out a long breath at the stinging sensation emanating from the stab wound in his chest. Streams of sweat poured down Porthos’s bronze skin and burned like fire as the salty wetness seeped into the open, bleeding wound.

Porthos squirmed as the sweat ran down his lower back then trickled underneath his braies, tickling his sensitive skin. “Argh, I can’t stand this,” he jumped at the tickling sensation, bumping his head lightly against the beam in the process. 

“Diable!” Porthos griped as he discovered yet another injury on his very sore body. His head ached steadily from the earlier blow in the tavern, though he couldn’t remember what happened. His thoughts halted as he suddenly became aware of something wet running from his scalp, tickling as it ran down his neck; he couldn’t be sure if the wetness was sweat or blood.

“Those damn buggers, what else did they do to me?” Porthos took a mental inventory—of sorts—of his injuries and huffed with amazement at the lack of serious wounds. “Small favors,” he blew out a relieved breath. “I’ll be sure to thank ‘em if I ever see ‘em again… as I skewer ‘em wit’ my sword!” 

“Oi, what would Athos say?” Porthos mused as his mind drifted to his three brothers. “And I thought the pup was accident-prone,” he muttered as his hands tugged again on the rope.

“Hmm, what would d’Artagnan think of this?” Porthos huffed as he thought of his youngest brother. “He prob’ly delivered his package wit’out a hitch and is back at the garrison drinkin’ ale… while I’m tied to this damn post!” 

“How do I get out o’ here?” Porthos yelled, losing his patience as he looked around the room for a means of escape. He stopped searching as his eyes fell on a shiny piece of glass glinting in the bright sunlight; the broken glass was near his feet but seemingly too distant. The Musketeer stretched out his long legs toward the glass but found it scarcely beyond his reach.

Porthos slid his body down the wooden beam until he was lying at an uncomfortable, odd angle across the floor. He then stretched out his legs toward the shiny object, his foot just barely touching the glass. The strong man flicked the toe of his boot to push the sharp object his way but it didn’t move far due to his unnatural angle.

“Come on, damn you!” Porthos growled as he used his foot to slowly move the glass to where he was sitting previously. The Musketeer leaned heavily into the beam to push himself back up into a seated position when the glass was finally close enough to his elbows. By the time he was sitting up again the Musketeer was soaked with sweat, dizzy and panting heavily from exertion.

Porthos sat still to allow the wave of dizziness to pass before using his elbow to push the glass behind his back near his hands. Finally, his fingers found the elusive jagged shard; he curled them around the glass. 

“Thank God,” Porthos let out the breath he was holding then leaned his head against the beam to gather his strength. At last, when he was ready, he grasped the shard tightly between his fingers then turned the glass around until the sharp end faced toward the rope. Slowly and methodically, the Musketeer used the glass like a saw to cut away at the strands of rope binding his wrists. 

“Argghh,” he groaned in pain. Porthos winced as the sawing motion painfully chafed his cut wrist, causing it to bleed again, but even worse were the jagged edges of the glass slicing into his fingers as he sawed.

The Musketeer lost his grip on the glass as his bloodied fingers became slippery and too wet to hold the shard. “Dammit… no!” Porthos moaned as his fingers desperately fished around behind him in search of the sharp tool. Finding the shard at last, he wiped his bloody fingers on the floor then began the sawing anew, not stopping until the rope finally loosened.

Alas! the rope snapped apart just as the glass slipped from his bloodied grasp once again. Porthos leaned his head against the beam and let out a long breath as he closed his weary eyes in relief. The pain from his fingers stung like fire, prompting him to pull his rubbery arms around in front of him so that he could examine the damaged fingers.

“Holy bloody hell!” Porthos gasped as he stared at his bleeding fingers, sliced open with deep cuts criss-crossing the pads of nearly every digit. Ignoring the pain, he reached down with his trembling hands to untie his feet then tossed the bloodied rope aside.

“I better no’ be on the second or third floor.” Porthos grumbled as he made his way to the large window. “Hmm, ‘bout time somethin’ went right,” he remarked at seeing that he was on the ground floor. Once out of the building, the Musketeer ran to the stable where Flip was munching away on fresh hay in his stall.

“Lad, I need my horse saddled righ’ away,” Porthos called to the stable boy now feeding the horse in the next stall. “I need to get out o’ here, quickly!”

“Oui, Monsieur,” the boy nodded but then then gasped as he looked at the bloodied Musketeer. “Are you alright, Monsieur?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Porthos replied as he ran to retrieve his saddle and tack to speed the boy up. “I’m in a hurry, boy!”

As Flip was finally saddled and ready to ride, Porthos mounted his horse then dropped several coins into the boy’s hand. He kicked his horse into a run, leaving the village of Étampes far behind without ever looking back.

**Musketeer Garrison:**

An exhausted, sweaty and sore Porthos finally rode through the garrison gates just as the sun was setting in the purple western sky. 

“I never thought I would be so damn happy to see the garrison again,” he smiled weakly at his worried brothers and captain.

“Are you alright?” Captain Tréville asked, his eyes growing ever wider as he took in all the blood mixed with perspiration covering the large man’s body.

“Porthos, what in the hell happened?” Aramis asked as the group of men helped the stiff and sore Musketeer down from his saddle.

“Oi, it’s a long story,” Porthos groaned tiredly.

“Nevermind what happened for the time being,” Tréville ordered. “Get him to the infirmary to be checked out.”

“Come on, mon ami, you can tell us all about your mishap as we get you cleaned up.” d’Artagnan smiled as he helped his larger brother to the infirmary. “It certainly couldn’t be any worse than what Aramis and I went through.”

“You wanna bet on ‘at?” Porthos huffed. “On second thought, forget the bet… think I’ve had enough of bettin’ for a while.”

Aramis hobbled along on his crutches, grinning sheepishly as Porthos stared at his wrapped foot. “I, um, encountered an angry husband and had to make a quick exit… out the second story window… in the dark,” the medic explained.

“Again, ‘Mis?” Porthos huffed as he shook his head. “And you” he turned to d’Artagnan, “wha’ ‘appened to your arm?”

“I tried to rescue a damsel in distress and was ambushed by her cohorts… er, partners in crime.” d’Artagnan frowned, pursing his lips together angrily.

“I have to ask, Porthos,” Captain Tréville sighed as he followed behind the trio. He guessed he already knew the answer but asked the question regardless, “what about the package? Did you deliver the package safely before… all this happened?” the captain waved his hand discouragingly in front of the injured Musketeer.

Porthos swallowed hard, his eyes darted nervously from Aramis to d’Artagnan, then finally to Tréville. “I, uh, I lost it, sir,” he groaned. “They must’ve taken it after they knocked me out then tied me up.” 

“Knocked you out and tied you up?” Aramis repeated. “Explain to me exactly what happened to you,” the medic looked at his friend with concern.

“Let us not worry about that right now,” Tréville held up his hand. “Just let the doctor take care of him. Oh, and Porthos, I do expect a full report in the morning.”

“Um, Cap’n, it might be hard for me to write,” Porthos held up his hands. “Seeing ‘at my fingers are sliced to shreds.”

“Aw, Porthos,” Captain Tréville sighed deeply. “Alright, you can _tell_ me what happened as _I_ write your report for the king.”

“For the king?” Porthos repeated with surprise. “Oh no…”

“Oh yes,” Captain Tréville countered. “The king is going to be _very_ interested in hearing how each of his Musketeers managed to lose a package entrusted to them. Damn, how do I explain this to His Majesty?” he grumbled as he retreated to the quiet solitude of his office.

“Where is Athos?” Porthos quickly changed the subject as he looked around for his missing brother.

“He hasn’t returned yet,” d’Artagnan’s answered glumly. “But if anyone can safely deliver his package _without_ any mishaps, it’s Athos,” the Gascon encouraged.

“I’m not so sure,” Aramis whispered softly yet loud enough for his friends to hear. “He’s been out there the longest now; the longer he’s out there, the more I worry for him. Look at us, dammit! I mean, it’s almost like we were set up…” he paled. “Madre de Dios, it’s like we were set up… to fail.”

“Bloody hell, ‘Mis, if they’ve set us up…”

“Aramis, you can’t be serious about this,” d’Artagnan protested. “Surely, the captain would not deliberately set us up _knowing_ that we could get hurt. The captain wouldn’t do that… would he?”

“Maybe the cap’n wouldn’t,” Porthos pursed his lips as he growled. “But who do you think _is_ very willin’ to set us up, no matter if we got hurt?”

“The king… or the cardinal?” d’Artagnan leaned over at the waist. “I think I’m going to be sick…”

“What was this, some kind of sick test?” the medic threw a bandage across the room. “Who knows what misadventures they have planned for our poor, unsuspecting Athos,” Aramis seethed. “It also appears that each of us has returned with wounds more serious than the one before.”

“Diable! I have a bad feeling about this,” d’Artagnan whispered. “Please, let Athos be alright.”

“Athos had better be alright,” Aramis’s features darkened as anger raged in his brown eyes. “Or, God help me, I’ll find it hard to hold my tongue in front of His Majesty _and_ His Eminence!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _L’Alibi,_ in the 18th arrondissement of Paris, is a cute little corner tavern with a green store front. It has a cozy lounging area and mosaic floors and a chrome bar counter, but the best thing about the L’Alibi Paris bar is the friendly atmosphere. 
> 
> **17th Century Card Games:**
> 
> Lanterloo, or loo, or lenturlu (French spelling)  
> French meaning for lenturlu is “fiddlesticks.” The game is said to have originated in France and then made its way to England in the 1660’s. Lenturlu is a trick-taking game in which one card is elevated above its normal rank, as is with the Jack of Clubs; this card is called “Pam” and ranks higher than the Ace trump card. The game is played by 3 to 8 players using a 52-card pack. The players bet and play for tricks, and in each round they may pass, play, or "miss."
> 
> Jeu Royal de la Guerre (Royal Game of War) is a French card game for two to twelve players, and is also a trick-taking game played with a dedicated war-themed 40-card pack based on the French-suited 36-card piquet pack. The piquet pack had 36 cards, along with 4 suitless cards. The suitless cards were Death, Force, Army General, and Prisoner of War. The remaining cards were Ace, King, Queen, Jack and 6–10 in each of the four French suits. The aces were styled as a cannoneer, a soldier with a drawn rapier, a battalion, and a squadron of horsemen.


	4. Athos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What would the captain think of this?” he chuckled at the thought. “You do realize that you are distracting me from my mission at hand.”

**Athos: East**

****Athos relished the late morning sun warming his face as he rode east toward Meaux. He dipped his head to return a friendly greeting by a rider heading west to Paris, though he paid little attention to most other travelers.

A wagon bearing a couple and their young son soon approached, traveling west. Upon recognition of the King’s Musketeer pauldron and the illustrious blue saddle blanket exclusive to the Musketeers, the young lad’s eyes opened wide with admiration.

“Mama, it’s a Musketeer… look!” the boy called out with excitement. “Bonjour, Monsieur… um, pardon me, Musketeer!” he corrected himself.

“Bonjour, young lad,” Athos smiled and raised his hat to the boy, bowing slightly in the saddle.

“Did you see that, Papa?” The boy was elated, happily reporting the encounter to his parents. “The Musketeer smiled at me and said hello!” he cried out. “He said hello to me, Mama!” 

“Au revoir, Monsieur… Musketeer!” the boy called. Athos raised his hat without turning around but continued riding on his way east.

In awe, the young lad turned around in his seat to watch Athos ride away until the Musketeer crested a hill then disappeared from view. “I want to be a Musketeer when I grow up,” the boy said dreamily.

*****

The Musketeer found himself thinking of Pinon as he passed by the scattered farms dotting the landscape. His brow wrinkled as he shook the memories from his mind, bringing himself back to the present. He noticed the village sign for Livry-Gargan just ahead but allowed his mind yet again to wander back in time.

“Livry-Gargan,” Athos stated with amazement. “I’ve been by here numerous times yet I’ve failed to take notice of how much it reminds me of home.”

His thoughts meandered back to La Fère and the days of his youth when he ran carefree through the fields of flowers and tall grass. He thought of his beautiful young wife, Anne, as they picnicked under their favorite tree; he also recalled chasing his wife through those same fields of flowers and tall grass.

Athos jumped when startled by a loud bleating call coming from the forest near the creek. “Whoa,” the Musketeer called to Roger, pulling hard on the reins and bringing the horse to a stop in the middle of the road. He craned his neck, listening for the strange noise until at last he heard the crying sound once again from inside the tree line.

“What could that noise possibly be?” Athos dismounted then pulled Roger along by the reins as he followed the sound to the creek. “It sounds like. . .” his voice trailed.

“It sounds like… a goat?” Athos nearly laughed as he stood gawking at the distraught animal with its legs caught in the briers and brambles, stuck terribly in the mud of the creek’s bank. 

“Whoa there, little one,” he whispered. Athos pulled the reins over Roger’s head then let the horse meander to an especially supple area of tender green grass. Turning his attention to the goat, Athos approached the distressed animal very slowly and cautiously.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Athos soothed softly. “I’m just going to free you from that… predicament you’re stuck in. Really, you have certainly gotten yourself into a fine mess for a goat,” he muttered under his breath. 

“What would the captain think of this?” he chuckled at the thought. “You do realize that you are distracting me from my mission at hand.” Athos loosened the branches and briers from around the goat’s feet. Frightened, the goat whipped his head around in a show of superiority by nearly impaling his rescuer with his horns; the Musketeer reflexively jumped back to avoid the goat’s strike.

“Alright now,” he growled, “if you want to be freed, dammit, then I suggest you settle down!” Athos paused to study the goat’s feet still caught in the tangle of weeds and mud, trying to devise a safer plan of action to free the animal. “Aramis and Porthos would never believe this,” he mumbled.

“Alright, I’m going to free your foot now,” Athos reached to pull the goat’s foot loose. “Steady boy,” he soothed, keeping his eye constantly on the goat’s head while pulling away the weeds.

“There, I think I got… ouch! You damnable creature!” Athos cursed as he pulled back his hand, now sporting small teeth marks on his wrist. “If we were closer to Paris, I think Serge would enjoy fresh meat for the men,” he growled.

The Musketeer was finally able to pull the animal’s legs free from the mire of brambles, “go on and go home now—you’re free.” Athos slapped the goat on his hind quarters, prompting him to dash back toward pasture where he belonged. “You’re lucky I’m going elsewhere, you ungrateful…” he frowned at the bite marks on his hand.

“Indeed, what would the captain think?” Athos huffed with a disbelieving shake of the head. “I allowed a goat to distract me from my duty!”

*****

Back on the road once again, Athos squinted as he looked up at the location of the sun. “I would venture to guess it’s around noon,” he patted Roger’s neck. “We need to make up for lost time.”

The Musketeer rode along, allowing his mind to wander again, but instantly perked up as he noticed black smoke rising from the next village.

“Make haste, Roger!” Athos kicked the horse into a run toward the village of Vaujours. As he neared the burning house, the Musketeer could hear the panicked screams for help rising above the crackling fire of the structure. A woman and her young servant girl noticed the Musketeer approaching on horseback and ran out to meet him.

“Please, Monsieur, my son… my little boy is still in there!” the woman screamed. “I couldn’t find him… I couldn’t find him! I couldn’t find my Antoine; he’s still in there! God please, won’t you please help me!”

“You stay out here—don’t you move!” Athos ordered the women as he jumped from his horse then ran to the burning house. The Musketeer paused by a puddle of water to wet a handkerchief to cover his nose and mouth then ran through the front door and into the inferno.

Athos’s eyes immediately stung from the smoke, causing involuntary tears to spring and further blur his vision. He wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand but kept moving through the house, calling out for Antoine. 

“Antoine! Antoine, can you hear me?” Athos yelled over the roar of the flames. “Answer me, dammit, Antoine… right now!” The Musketeer’s ears perked at the sound of a faint cry coming from upstairs. “Hold on, Antoine, I’m coming!” Athos bellowed as he bounded up the stairs.

“Antoine, where are you?” the Musketeer rasped and coughed. Athos doubled over while still holding the handkerchief tightly over his face but found it increasingly more difficult to breathe, as though his lungs were also aflame.

“Please answer me, Antoine!” Athos pleaded. The call was rewarded with a desperate scream originating from a back bedroom, helping pinpoint the boy’s hiding place. Stopping at a large, ornate wardrobe, the Musketeer opened it to find the frightened young boy huddled in the back corner.

“Come on, lad; let’s get you out of here,” Athos said as he gathered the boy in his arms then ran back in the direction he came. The pair was soon challenged by the nearness of the flames, mocking and daring their escape, while making forward progress cumbersome and slow. The Musketeer felt the heat of the fire taunting his body with sadistic pleasure and thought for a moment they were trapped in the very bowels of Hell.

“It’s hot… we’re gonna die!” the boy screamed as he fought against the arms holding him tight.

“Here, hold this over your nose and mouth.” Athos handed the boy his handkerchief, leaving himself exposed to the smoky air. “Now close your eyes, son,” he whispered soothingly. “Don’t open your eyes again until I tell you, alright?” The boy nodded as the Musketeer hunkered low then ran for the stairs.

A loud crack! sounded just as part of the ceiling collapsed, bringing chunks of plaster and burning beams down around the duo in a rain of flaming debris. Athos reached out to steady himself on the stairs as a burning beam fell, landing squarely on his arm.

“Ah, damn,” he cursed. Athos squirmed from under the beam, shaking it aside then pushing it away with his hand. The Musketeer wobbled as his vision greyed, “come on, damn you… move!” he ordered himself.

With renewed strength, the Musketeer ran down the remaining stairs then out the front door without stopping until he reached the yard. An enormous roar was heard as the roof caved in over the staircase, collapsing half of the house into a smoldering pile of rubble.

“Antoine!” The mother screamed as Athos appeared from the smoky haze coughing and wheezing, but safely carrying the young lad in his arms. “Oh, thank God! My baby… thank you! Thank you, Monsieur!” The woman grabbed her son then burst into tears as she kissed the boy, hugging him and rocking him in her arms.

The Musketeer fell to his knees, doubling over as he desperately gasped for breath. Athos coughed and gagged on the smoke choking the very air from his lungs and burning his throat raw.

“Adele, run and fetch this man some water from the well,” the woman ordered her servant.

The smell of melted leather and burned hair and flesh filled Athos’s nostrils, making his stomach turn. The Musketeer retched, bringing up the contents of his stomach mixed with black soot and particles of ash from his nose and throat. He coughed in between his urgent gulps for air, desperate to feed his burning lungs, but instead felt as though he was suffocating on the inside.

“Here, drink this water,” the woman said as she held the cup to Athos’s lips. He greedily drank from the cup, emptying the refreshing liquid in one gulp.

“More,” Athos rasped. The woman dipped the cup into the small bucket of water then gave it to the Musketeer who drank it down more slowly, as though savoring the refreshing coolness as it slid down his parched throat. “One more,” he handed the woman the empty cup. Taking the filled cup, he took a sip and swished the water around in his mouth; he gargled to remove the sooty grit from his mouth and his throat then spit the blackened water out into the grass.

“Thank you, Madame,” Athos nodded as he sat back on his haunches, releasing a long breath. He cautiously took in a deep breath but instantly regretted it as he was wracked with a hacking coughing fit.

“Try another sip of water, it should help,” Adele offered the Musketeer with a smile.

Athos’s cough subsided as he sipped slowly on the water, “thank you, Mademoiselle.” The Musketeer’s coughing gave way to raspy shallow inhalations but gave it little thought; he was just grateful to still be breathing.

“I must be going on my way,” Athos grimaced with pain. “I have to complete my journey and make it to Meaux.”

“But, Monsieur, you are in no condition to ride,” the woman protested. “Why, your hand is burned… and so is your arm,” she pointed to the melted leather sleeve.

“No, the leather protected my arm,” Athos breathed out slowly. “My hand, however, might be a little singed.”

“A little singed?” the woman huffed. “Really, this is no time for modesty, Monsieur! Let me apply an ointment and wrap your hand with a bandage before you go; I have some supplies in our servants quarters. Adele, would you please go fetch those supplies for me?”

“Oui, Madame.”

“Please, let me care for you,” the woman’s eyes watered. “It is the least I can do to thank you for saving my son’s life,” she paused, her voice quivering. “If not for you, my Antoine would be dead. I owe you… I owe you more than I can ever repay.”

“Your tending to my hand is payment enough, Madame,” Athos smiled.

*****

After Athos’s hand was treated and wrapped, the Musketeer was finally on the road again heading toward his final destination. “What a journey this has been,” he huffed with disgust.

The Musketeer rode with increasing discomfort as the pain in his hand steadily intensified from a dull ache to a constant throbbing. “Damn, I should have brought along a skin of wine. When I need wine there isn’t any to be found,” he rasped, his breath hissing in pain.

He sighed as he saw the small village of Claye-Souilly, knowing he was finally getting close to arriving in Meaux. As he approached the canal, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as he became aware of a rustling noise coming from the line of trees.

Athos barely had time to reach for his pistol when a group of four bandits rushed from the trees on his left. The Musketeer shot one bandit in the chest, knocking him from his horse dead. He then reached for his main gauche and, in one smooth motion he threw the dagger as the second bandit rode toward him, hitting the man in the throat.

Athos ducked as the third bandit shot at him but missed. The missed shot was a perfect opportunity for the Musketeer to aim his second pistol at the man but, before he could pull the trigger, a sudden force from behind knocked him from the saddle.

The Musketeer was dazed but managed to pull himself up, though he swayed unsteadily on his feet. He stood with his sword in his bandaged hand and waited for the bandits to approach. Athos didn’t have to wait long when one bandit lunged, deliberately aiming with wicked intent at the wounded man’s arm.

Athos leapt backward to avoid the glimmering steel blade and parried the blow but clumsily stumbled, due to his growing dizziness. The zealous opponent made a spirited growl from deep within his throat as he lunged at Athos once again.

The Musketeer pivoted on his heel and whirled around, enabling him to unexpectedly grab the opponent by his collar; he pushed the man off balance then kicked him down to his knees. The bandit suddenly lashed around with his dagger in hand, aiming to wreak havoc on Athos’s legs.

“Stay down, damn you!” Athos stepped aside to avoid the dagger’s blade but then lunged forward with his sword, plunging his rapier deep into the man’s back.

The Musketeer crumbled to his knees as thunder roared in his ears and his vision began to grey around the edges. Athos’s eyes widened in surprise as he heard a wicked, cackling laugh from behind break through the fog in his consciousness; the volume of the laugh surpassed even the roaring in his ears.

The maniacal laugh continued with sadistic delight as victory was certain for the mystery bandit when Athos collapsed to the ground, overcome with debilitating weakness. Try as he might, the Musketeer’s body would not cooperate. Paralyzed from lack of strength, Athos simply closed his eyes and waited for the death stroke to fall.

A shot rang out from the distance, cutting short the maniacal laugh in an instant. The sound of a body falling to the ground preceded the darkness creeping into Athos’s awareness until all light and sound vanished into a black void. The Musketeer never felt his body fall face-first into the dirt next to the man who very nearly killed him.

**Musketeer Garrison, Next Day:**

Captain Tréville leaned against the balustrade of the balcony, watching his men in the courtyard below. He frowned at the two Musketeers sparring while a group of fellow Musketeers cheered on their favorite contestant. The men sparring looked sloppy and disinterested, as though they were simply going through the motions to impress the captain watching them from above.

The captain heard murmurs of conversation carrying on from the picnic table where three of his best Musketeers sat apathetically picking over their meal. Neither of the men appeared interested in eating as worry over their missing fourth hung overhead like an ominous cloud.

As if on cue, a stranger rode through the arched gate into the courtyard causing all activity within the garrison to cease. All heads turned to the rider, though he was of no interest to the men but rather whom he was holding in his arms.

The man’s arms were wrapped around Athos to hold him upright in the saddle, as the Musketeer’s head rested limply against the stranger’s neck; sauntering behind the duo was Roger, tethered to the lead horse. The men at the picnic table jumped up to rush to their friend’s side but gasped aloud at Athos’s pale and haggard appearance.

“Let me through so I can look at him,” Aramis said as he hobbled next to the horse. He leaned on his crutch as he reached up to take Athos’s wrist, checking the man’s pulse. Breathing a sigh of relief at the steady pulse, he looked at the stranger. “What happened to our friend?”

“He was attacked yesterday just outside of Claye-Souilly by a group of bandits,” the man replied. “Your friend here put up quite an impressive fight; he killed three of the four buggers.”

“What happened to him then?” Captain Tréville inquired as he hastily joined the group.

“He was shot from the saddle,” the man answered the captain. “I saw him fight… and I saw him fall. I took him to the inn at Claye-Souilly to care for him but he wouldn’t let me do much,” he huffed. “I barely was able to wrap the wound, let alone treat his injuries.”

“I’m fine,” Athos slurred as he awoke. “Where am I?” the injured Musketeer blinked in confusion at his blurry surroundings.

“Yeah, sure you’re fine,” d’Artagnan rolled his eyes, shaking his head with disbelief.

“As I said, he was putting up a splendid fight but I could tell that he was weakening; his movements were becoming slow and lax—probably due to blood loss.”

“I beg your pardon, Monsieur, but I was not ssslow; I esspecially was _not_ lax, mind you.” Athos protested stubbornly.

“‘E can’t be hurt too bad,” Porthos quipped. “His obstinate, headstrong temperament is as healthy as ever.”

“I am not obstinate…”

“Oh, you’re not obstinate, huh?” Aramis grinned.

“‘At’s rubbish!” Porthos countered.

“Alright, let’s get him down from there and to the infirmary,” Captain Tréville ordered. “I’ll be by later; I’d like to have a word with our Good Samaritan as you boys look after Athos.”

“‘Ere, let me take ‘im.” Porthos tugged at Athos as the others helped the injured man slip from the saddle into the arms of the large Musketeer.

**Later, Musketeer Infirmary:**

“You are certainly one lucky man, Athos. It was most fortuitous of your Good Samaritan to come around when he did,” Doctor Lemay nodded as he wiped his hand clean. 

“How is he doctor?” Aramis asked.

“Fairly well, considering,” Lemay replied. “The ball passed through his side with no major damage to his internal organs—utterly amazing!”

“Would you be so enthusiastic if the ball _had_ caused damage, doctor?” Athos asked as his eyelids began to droop closed.

“Athos, your bedside manners are atrocious, mon ami,” Aramis squeezed his friend on the shoulder. “Actually, I should rephrase that. What I meant to say is that your _in bed_ manners are utterly appalling and you should apologize to the good doctor,” the medic grinned. “After all, he has to put up with your recalcitrant behavior as a patient—and he has my pity.”

“Contrary to your accusations, Aramis, my behavior is never insubordinate!”

d’Artagnan suddenly choked on the sip of water he just swallowed, spraying over Athos with the liquid as he sputtered and coughed. Porthos pounded on the choking man’s back as he giggled softly.

“You were saying?” Aramis deadpanned as he glared at Athos.

“I am quite well enough,” Athos said as he tried sitting up. “I think I’ll retire to my room.”

“Not so fast,” Aramis pushed his friend back down on the bed. “You’re not going anywhere for a while yet.”

“Wha’ ‘appened to you?” Porthos pointed at the melted apparel lying beside the bed. “Your doublet is burned… and so is your hand.”

“I happened upon a house fire in Voujours,” Athos relayed succinctly. “It’s nothing… I just got a little singed.”

“A little singed?” d’Artagnan was incredulous. “Your doublet was nearly melted—it’s ruined—and you call that a little singed?”

“What happened to your left hand?” Aramis pointed to the row of red marks on his wrist.

“Oh, I was freeing a goat caught in the mud and brambles and… and he bit me.” Athos closed his eyes as his face reddened.

“A goat!” the men echoed with laughter.

“I’m pleased you find this so amusing,” Athos grumbled with sarcasm.

“You’re lucky goats only have bottom teeth!” d’Artagnan wrapped his arms around his waist as he doubled over in laughter.

“Oi, a fire… a goat… bandits…” Porthos listed with a chuckle.

“I thought our adventures were rather captivating,” Aramis huffed with amusement. “But, Athos, I think your escapade to the east has put our mishaps to shame.” 

“Since the doctor ordered bedrest for you—meaning, you can’t get up and walk out on us—why don’t you fill us all in on your escapade to the east.” d’Artagnan winked at Aramis as he pulled up a chair then sat with his long legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles.

“Rubbish, we ‘ave plenty of time.” Porthos pulled up his own chair then plopped down. “We’re listenin’.”

“Oh yes, please do enlighten us,” Aramis snickered. “I’m dying to hear this.” 

“I need a sleep draught,” Athos grumbled.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Aramis retorted. “You’re not going to sleep until…” Aramis started but was interrupted. 

“Not until we hear about the goat…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to wrap up the mishaps—stick around to find out who masterminded the misadventures!
> 
>  
> 
> **Fun Fact:**
> 
>  
> 
> Goats do not have top front teeth, but rather a hard "plate" which they use with their bottom teeth to grind the food against the plate. This is of course called "chewing cud." I have never been bitten by a goat but, according to those who have, they still say that it hurts like crazy, despite no top teeth. Ouch!


	5. The Reveal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Captain, seeing that my Musketeers failed—miserably, I might add— with each of their assigned tasks, I may as well enlighten you on the test we were conducting.” King Louis threw the four papers aside with disgust.

THE REVEAL

The four Musketeers stood at attention in the office, each lined in front of the large desk as Captain Tréville paced. “I am going to the palace this afternoon,” the captain informed the four men facing the empty desk. “The king wants to read the reports from your assigned missions.”

Captain Tréville returned to the desk waving the four papers emphatically in front of the men. “What is the king to say about these?” he threw the papers down with disgust.

“Um, you could accidentally lose the reports on the way to the palace,” Aramis grinned sheepishly.

“Lose the reports?” Captain Tréville repeated with astonishment. “Do you think this is a joke? No, don’t… don’t answer that,” Tréville held up his hand to the medic. “Either you’re a glutton for punishment, Aramis, or you enjoy our regiment being heralded as a company of imbeciles.”

“None of the above, sir,” Aramis swallowed hard as his three friends glared.

“Captain, perhaps those parcels were just of routine import?” d’Artagnan reasoned as he bit his lower lip. 

“They were probably invitations to his own birthday celebration,” Aramis muttered. “The king is upset because he won’t get as many presents.”

“What was that, Aramis?” Captain Tréville snapped.

“Sir, if the parcels involved urgent state business or contained matters of national security, would not the king have taken further precautions?” d’Aragnan quickly interjected to sway the captain’s wrath. “I mean, would His Majesty have sent us alone on such a mission without backup?”

“Indeed, His Majesty would certainly have been more vehement about taking explicit security precautions,” Athos added dryly.

“Any mission the king assigns his Musketeers should be carried out with utmost care and caution,” Tréville corrected his lieutenant. “Your performance on this mission has embarrassed His Majesty,” the captain informed the group.

“Imagine our embarrassment,” Aramis whispered under his breath.

“One more word out of you, Aramis…” 

“Do you want company on your ride to the palace, Captain?” Athos quickly offered as he sent a warning glance to his medic friend.

“No, I want each of you out there,” the captain outstretched his arm as he sharply pointed toward the courtyard, “training the new recruits.” Tréville secured the papers in his leather satchel then stood with his hands on his hips. “Aramis, you have marksmanship training; Porthos, you have hand-to-hand defense; Athos and d’Artagnan, you will each supervise swordsmanship. Get going,” the captain snapped, “all of you!”

The four men scrambled to the office door, bumping into each other in their hurry to put distance between themselves and the captain.

“Hey, watch my crutch,” Aramis yelped. “You almost tripped me!”

“Oi, don’t walk so slow then,” Porthos scowled, “‘specially not in front of me!”

“Well, it’s a little difficult to run with a broken foot, mon ami,” Aramis growled.

“You didn’t find it too difficult to run from the enraged husband on a broken foot,” d’Artagnan countered with a grin.

“That was different,” Aramis retorted. 

“How was it different?” d’Artagnan asked.

“Because… at the time… it was a matter of life and death!”

“Really, Aramis?” Athos rolled his eyes.

“Does the captain really want us to spar with the recruits like this?” d’Artagnan motioned to his right arm still wrapped in a sling and then to Athos’s bandaged right hand.

“What, you can’t spar left-handed?” Aramis quipped.

“Migh’ be the only chance the recruits ‘ave in beatin’ you two fair and square—given that you’re both handicapped,” Porthos chuckled.

“Not funny,” d’Artagnan glowered at his large friend.

“The captain said _supervise_ swordsmanship,” Athos corrected the Gascon. “You can spar with the recruits if you’d like as I happily watch,” he ghosted a grin.

**Louvre Palace:**

“These are the official reports from the parcel mission?” King Louis asked as he rifled through the papers, his brow furrowed with a deep frown.

Cardinal Richelieu stood nearby, absently twirling his thumbs while doing little to hide his pleased grin. “I told you so,” he boasted under his breath.

“Told him what?” Captain Tréville asked, glancing with surprise between the two men.

“I will not have you gloat, Cardinal!” the king snapped angrily, ignoring the captain.

“Yes, of course, Your Majesty,” Cardinal Richelieu bowed low to hide his spreading grin. “Forgive me, Sire.”

“Captain, seeing that my Musketeers failed—miserably, I might add— with each of their assigned tasks, I may as well enlighten you on the test we were conducting.” King Louis threw the four papers aside with disgust.

“What test?” Captain Tréville asked sharply, eyeing the cardinal suspiciously. “Your Majesty, what test are you referring to?”

“The cardinal thought it would be enlightening—indeed, most telling—to test the proficiency of my Musketeers in comparison to his Guards,” the king replied casually.

“The Musketeers were to be tempted with various _distractions_ to see how easily they might lose focus and be—shall we say, lured—into a situation in which their secret parcel could be stolen.” Cardinal Richelieu explained on behalf of the king.

“Wait a minute,” Tréville stepped toward the cardinal, his fists balled in anger. “What do you mean, ‘lured’ into a situation?”

“The _situations_ your men found themselves in were prearranged,” Richelieu reported with a smirk. “The participants were especially chosen for each scenario and Musketeer; all fine actors from _Théâtre du Marais,_ who did indeed perform splendidly.”

Captain Tréville stood motionless, too stunned at the news to speak; his features soon hardened as his surprise turned into anger at the revelation. “You mean to tell me, Your Majesty, the assignment to deliver your secret parcels was just a ruse… a _test_ to see if my men could be distracted?” Tréville struggled to maintain his temper in front of the king.

“It was a test, _Captain,_ to see if _my_ Musketeers could successfully complete their assignment _despite_ said distractions.” The king rose from his chair to pace the floor as the captain stood at attention. “I expect _my_ Musketeers to complete their missions entirely _successfully_ without being averted by scandalous distractions.”

“Please, Your Eminence, tell me that the house fire Athos encountered was not part of your ruse,” Captain Tréville inquired warily.

“Captain Tréville,” Cardinal Richelieu placidly replied, “is your regard of me so abhorrent you would accuse me of such a heinous act as burning a family’s home to the ground? Really, Captain,” the cardinal made a tsk, tsk sound. “I do have a moral conscience and I answer to a Higher Power,” he grinned. “No, Athos never arrived at his assigned destination so he was never properly tested,” he answered coolly. “Nevertheless, he is still being marked as failing his assignment—given that he was distracted… multiple times.”

“Surely, you would not presume that Athos should have ridden past that house fire while ignoring the mother’s screams for help, Your Eminence?”

“That was an unfortunate distraction…”

“And what of the bandits?”

“They were not planned either, Captain,” Richelieu reported dryly. “Ah, but for Athos, I could not have planned a more perfectly customized ruse—though I still consider his assignment a failure.”

“I would not say that his mission was entirely a failure, Your Eminence,” Captain Tréville countered as he pulled a package from his doublet pocket. “Athos was nearly killed trying to deliver this phony parcel to Meaux,” he held up the package. “A Good Samaritan came along at the right time and killed a bandit that would have taken Athos’s life; that same anonymous rescuer returned this package to me after bringing Athos back to the garrison.”

“And your point is, Captain?” the cardinal asked with obvious disinterest. 

“The point is, Your Eminence, that Athos’s _‘failure’_ to complete his mission successfully proved that there are still good people in this world—a world full of deceivers and thieves—who are honest, genuine, valiant and who dare to put the needs of others before their own,” Captain Tréville stated proudly. “Whether those needs are of a young lady in distress or a child trapped in a burning house; or a Good Samaritan helping to rescue a stranger from certain death, and also by giving him aid as he was able _and_ returning a package that he easily could have stolen without consequence.”

“There are good people everywhere as there are bad people everywhere,” Cardinal Richelieu waved his hand with indifference. “You are forgetting to whom you are addressing, Captain. As a man of the cloth, I see good and bad people every single day; your point is moot.”

“Your Eminence, my men were each…”

 _“My_ men, Captain Tréville,” Louis corrected abruptly.

Tréville clenched his jaw, fighting to keep his temper in check, while taking in deep breaths before daring to speak. _“Your_ men, Your Majesty, were injured as a result of those tests. Whether planned or not, some of the injuries could have been quite serious—even fatal—and all for an ill-conceived ruse?”

“The injuries are unfortunate, Captain,” the king sighed. “However, I did need to know where improvements could be made within my own Musketeer regiment. If there are weaknesses to be improved upon, Captain, would it not be prudent to discover those weaknesses during a _test_ rather than in a real situation?”

“The actors were far more forgiving than a genuine miscreant would have been, Captain,” Cardinal Richelieu smiled smugly.

“My men…” Tréville dug his fingernails into his palms, “His Majesty’s men, did not need to be hurt in order to be tested. Those men are Musketeers; they are not green recruits never having seen the dawn of battle. Aramis has a broken ankle…”

“Which he received from jumping out of a second story window while _entertaining_ a man’s wife,” the cardinal interrupted.

“Porthos was stabbed, then hit over the head and tied to a pole,” the captain pressed onward. “While d’Artagnan had his arm dislocated by being crudely twisted behind his back; he was also knocked unconscious.” 

“Your men were the aggressors and had to be subdued,” the cardinal countered. “My people acted in self-defense; they felt their lives were threatened.”

“Their lives were threatened?” the captain was aghast. “You cannot be serious, Your Eminence! My men… His Majesty’s men were _not_ the aggressors,” he snarled. “d’Artagnan was aiding a mademoiselle being harassed…”

“Enough, Captain!” King Louis clipped loudly. “I have heard enough; I will not listen to this pointless argument any longer. I will have the four men here at the palace—when they have recovered sufficiently from their injuries—to join with the Red Guards in remedial training sessions at the cardinal’s discretion.”

“Remedial training sessions?” Tréville repeated in disbelief, “and at the cardinal’s discretion? But, Your Majesty…”

“That is all, Captain,” the king replied curtly. “You are dismissed.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Tréville bowed in resignation to his king. The Musketeer captain turned on his heel sighing deeply, though wisely keeping quiet.

“Oh, one more thing, Captain…”

**Musketeer Garrison:**

Captain Tréville rode into the garrison in a surly mood. He allowed the stable boy to take his horse then stormed into his office without speaking a word to anyone. The four men watched their captain’s hardened demeanor, exchanging worried glances as their eyes followed him all the way to his office.

“Uh oh,” Aramis groaned. “It certainly doesn’t appear that his visit to the palace went well.”

“Oi, the cap’n looks furious,” Porthos swallowed hard.

“Should we ask the captain how it went at… the… palace,” d’Artagnan quieted, hesitating at the reaction to his ridiculous suggestion.

“I’m not going anywhere near the captain,” Aramis let out a huff of breath. “Not for a long time, by the look of things.” 

“Do you have a bloody death wish, whelp?” Porthos growled.

“Athos?” the three friends echoed together.

Athos glanced at his friends in surprise. The three brothers stared back, pleading; all eyes looked to him as their leader… and the chosen one to address their captain.

“Don’t look at me,” Athos countered.

“You _are_ his second-in-command, Athos,” Aramis reasoned logically.

“Indeed you are!” Porthos clapped Athos on the shoulder. “Go find out wha’ ‘appened at the palace, _lieutenant.”_

Athos narrowed his eyes as he glared at his three friends, “you’re each going to owe me…”

“Fine, whatever you say,” Aramis waved his hand. “We’ll gladly return the favor as long as it’s _you_ up there facing the captain and not us.”

“Perhaps we should make ourselves scarce,” d’Artagnan suggested as Athos climbed the stairs to the captain’s office.

“Think the pup’s right,” Porthos swallowed hard as Athos glowered at him from the office door. 

“Let’s make ourselves busy with the new recruits,” Aramis suggested as the three men scattered.

*****

Athos slammed the office door then grasped the balcony railing with both hands to calm his temper and slow his rapid breathing. He leaned over as a coughing fit resonated through his body, taking him by surprise; he endured the fit—as a mere annoyance—while holding onto the railing for support until it passed.

“Damn,” Athos cursed as he weakly pulled himself to full height. The Musketeer cleared his throat then angrily shoved the hat on his head; he paused at the scrutinizing, ever-observant and worried glances of Aramis watching him from afar. Captain Tréville soon joined his lieutenant on the balcony and stood quietly until, at last, he released an apprehensive sigh.

“Let’s gather the others; they need to know what’s going on.”

*****

“What do you mean, it was a ruse?” d’Artagnan gasped in surprise.

“Wait a damn minute…” Porthos growled angrily.

“You’re telling us the entire mission—delivering phony packages to a phony rendezvous—was all prearranged by the king and the cardinal?” Aramis’s face reddened as his temper flared. “Madre de Dios! God help me, I’d like to give them both a piece of my mind!”

“Well, you’re not going to, Aramis,” the captain abruptly interjected. “You would be way out of line, soldier! Besides, I already voiced my grievance at this… rather unexpected revelation.”

“It was all an act, Captain?” d’Artagnan clarified as his eyes widened with realization. “So, Valérie crying at the fountain…”

“… was hired by the cardinal,” Captain Tréville finished the Gascon’s sentence. “The people you encountered—the suspects regarding your lost parcels—were all hand-picked by Richelieu to distract you in the manner the cardinal felt would be most successful.”

“I don’t believe it,” d’Artagnan uttered in shock. “Valérie was so convincing, her tears were certainly real. I thought she was in trouble—that she needed my help!”

“So the husband and wife _were_ working together!” Aramis was incredulous. He sat with his mouth agape before angrily covering it with his balled fist as he seethed. “I jumped out of a second story window in the dark and broke my foot for an **act?** Mother Mary, I’d like to get my hands on that couple!”

An angry, throaty growl soon emerged from Porthos as he slammed his hands down on the table. “Damn them, they accused me of cheatin’!”

“Alright… alright enough!” Tréville yelled over the discussion, holding his hands up to quiet the angry men. “I understand you’re upset and I agree with you wholeheartedly,” he shook his head. “You have every right to be angry but there is nothing we can do about it now. Gentlemen, you must learn from this and never let it happen again.”

“Captain, you know that we always perform our duty to the utmost of our ability; as King’s Musketeers we take our assignments very seriously,” Athos methodically stated. “But there are situations which come up that may temporarily pull us away from our duty—such as that house fire—that must take priority… if it’s a matter of life or death.”

“Mon Dieu, surely the house fire was not set on purpose!” Aramis was aghast.

“No, it was not,” Tréville quickly replied. “Athos never went through his prearranged _distraction_ since he didn’t make it to Meaux,” he scowled. “I have no idea what the cardinal had planned for him there.”

“Nor do I care to find out,” Athos protested.

“I was helping a young lady I _thought_ was being harassed by a couple of hooligans,” d’Artagnan complained angrily. “Should I have turned away and done nothing?”

“Gentlemen, I would have done exactly what you did if I were in a similar circumstance,” Captain Tréville stated but then paused to rethink his statement. “Well, I would have done as two of you did in such circumstances,” the captain motioned to Athos and d’Artagnan.

d’Artagnan raised his eyebrows, grinning at Aramis and Porthos as he relished in the captain’s esteemed comment. The Gascon was rewarded with two very irritated growls.

“The king is very upset that you all failed,” Captain Tréville paused, “while the cardinal is gloating and has declared his ruse a success.” 

“Of course, the cardinal would gloat,” Aramis muttered under his breath.

“The king suggested that you each be retested...”

“Not a chance!” Athos growled.

“Rubbish, if the king thinks…” Porthos’s thoughts were interrupted by Aramis.

“I didn’t sign up with the Musketeers to be a test dummy,” Aramis retorted with anger.

“I respectfully told His Majesty that his men were soldiers not pawns to be played in a game of deception,” the captain paused.

“And…?” the men echoed.

“And the king determined…” the captain took a deep breath, “the king determined that you shall undergo remedial training with the Cardinal’s Red Guard. He also elected to have you stand guard at the palace for the upcoming summer entertainment—lawn games and such—as well as the queen’s tea parties and masquerade balls.”

“I think I’d rather do a re-test,” d’Artagnan complained.

“Oi, ‘at means standing around in the damn heat with flies… and sweat… and blazin’ heat…”

“Can we opt to re-test instead?” Aramis frowned.

“I’m afraid it’s not open for discussion; the king has made up his mind.” Tréville abruptly ended the conversation, feeling a headache coming on. “You men are dismissed.”

The four men glanced at each other in stunned silence. Without a word, the Musketeers turned to go back to their picnic table, each reeling in shock from the revealed ruse. 

“Oh, Athos,” Tréville called after his lieutenant, stopping him in his tracks. “The king does have an additional assignment for you…”

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and for reviewing this fun little story of mishaps!
> 
> I want to dearly thank all of my faithful followers and reviewers who have stuck by me and with my stories from day one... you are the reason why I kept coming back with more stories.


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